Her mouth was stuck in
a permanent half-smile and
love to her was a

myth like irrational
numbers, religion, and her
mum. She was willful

and in the advanced
class for calculus and trig.
Her name was Joy, but

she hardly felt it;
she would have preferred Amun.
She stuck pens in her

hair, sometimes over her ear,
though, the last time we saw her,
she was still looking

for courage to stab
her wrist veins dark blue-violet.
Her eyes sunk deep with

the ages gone by
(2 6 13) and she had
lost hope in her dad.

She never stopped to
think that her life was more than
a couple of nice

metaphors strung neat
like laundry out to dry, that
people noticed her

slumping down hallways
and wrote haiku about her.
Maybe if we had

taken time to solve
the math problems that she wrote
with her heart on her

desk and her feelings
sprawled like integers amongst
unfinished worksheets,

we would've known to
save her from herself, and her
dad (and mum) as well.

True, we did cry when
she was brought in, wearing blood
like a halo she

would never deserve.
Her funeral hall was full;
whole class attended.

_{And she never knew
how big a hole she'd leave in
calculus class,} or

else she wouldn't have
stepped in front of that car and
touched God's face hello.